


Fixed in Stone

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [28]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, AU, Art, Artists, Assassins & Hitmen, Dinosaurs, Friendship, Ichthyosaurs, Kissing, London, M/M, Museums, art lessons, diplodocus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4275114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crawford and Schuldig study the anatomy of prehistoric creatures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixed in Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indelicateink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indelicateink/gifts).



> For [](http://indelicateink.livejournal.com/profile)[indelicateink](http://indelicateink.livejournal.com/), who was tireless in her work for this year's Weiss Keuz vs Saiyuki Battle!

I have arranged to meet Schuldig at the entrance of the Natural History Museum, so that I can examine some of the more outlandish exhibits and practice on the anatomy of monsters and mythological creatures. He just wants to see dinosaurs. He is, of course, late, but I find I don't care in the slightest. He could be hours late and hurl obscenities in my face and I would no doubt just smile foolishly at him; I smile a little foolishly right then. Hurl _more_ obscenities, I think, and try not to actually laugh in public. I occupy myself while waiting by sketching other visitors to the museum, using the pastels I have brought to add quick colour to the pages. Schoolchildren, other artists and worried scholars soon populate my sketchbook, all looking rather more golden and angelic than perhaps they really do in the summer sun. I can be excused a little artistic licence, I decide.  
  
"Why, Mr Crawford, how very sweet," a voice says beside me.  
  
"Miss Lin?"  
  
She smiles impishly at me, and looks back at the sketch I have been colouring. The young lady was perhaps not quite as pre-Raphaelite as I have made her, I have to admit, nor her frock so diaphanous. I smile a little sheepishly; it really is rather sickening.  
  
"You're visiting the museum too?" I say.  
  
"Yes," she says. "A young mutual friend asked me to come along – he said he might need help in keeping you under control. Now what on earth could he have meant by that, Mr Crawford?"  
  
I try not to look despondent as though I don't welcome her company. "Who can tell? You know he likes to joke."  
  
"Yes," she says, and it sounds as if she's laughing at me. She takes my sketchbook and looks through it, nodding in what I hope is approval. I feel the urge to draw her in this morning's cheerful style, smiling happily, her cheeks pink. Perhaps in a less alarmingly modern skirt.  
  
"Look, Letty," a little boy says, stopping by us, "that lady's Chinese!"  
  
"Then she's not a lady," his slightly older sister says in a loud whisper. "But don't stare, it's rude."  
  
"You are both being rude," their nanny says, "come along."  
  
"But, Nurse –"  
  
"It's not polite to say such things out loud. Quickly now –"  
  
I try not to stare at the children, who are still remonstrating with their nanny as they hurry up the steps, then do my best not to look at Miss Lin. I can think of nothing to say that doesn't seem to compound the offence. She seems not to have heard, which I think is impossible, concentrating intently on my sketches as she turns the pages back and forth.  
  
"You really are in a sunny humour today," she says, her usual smile in place. "No half-human creatures at all."  
  
"Well, he _is_ late," I joke, and offer her my arm. I hope it does not seem as if I am trying too hard to prove I think her worth treating like a lady. "It's rather hot to stand here, isn't it? Would you like to find somewhere to have some tea?"  
  
"Let's just stroll down Exhibition Road and back," she says, settling the strap of her satchel more comfortably on her shoulder. "We might find someone who'd make a better model for us both, and then he'd learn the value of being on time."  
  
We take an easy pace, ambling along in the sunlight with other pedestrians, idly commenting on the quality of those we pass as potential models.  
  
"That young lady would make an admirable maenad," I say, nodding towards a dark-haired girl of some twenty years who has a thin and wiry frame and seems possessed of great energy. "You could have her tearing that newspaper seller limb from limb in your next work."  
  
"Or you could paint her as a siren, luring Odysseus and his men into the rocks," she says, laughing. "A young, red-haired Odysseus." She squeezes my arm as I try not to smile in too fatuous a manner, and spends the next few minutes appraising other young women's clothing and styles of walking. It helps to take my mind off how late Schuldig is, at least for a while.  
  
"Do you think we ought to turn back?" I ask. "What could be keeping him?"  
  
"I suppose he was delayed at home," she says. "He'll turn up, don't worry. A day of idling in your company, Mr Crawford? Do you really think he'd miss that?" She takes pity on me, however, and we turn around, strolling back the way we have come.  
  
"Why would he waste time at home?" I mutter peevishly. "He doesn't even like it there." A thought strikes me. "Miss Lin – has he ever said much to you about his home? Or his family?"  
  
She looks up at me. "Not much. Are you asking me to betray confidences?"  
  
"No, not at all!" I say, feeling a pang that Schuldig should share confidences with her.  
  
"He has mentioned a mother, a brother – he doesn't talk about a father, so I imagine he is without one, for whatever reason. He has talked about _your_ father, Mr Crawford, and has strong opinions. Is it true you have been cut off?"  
  
"Oh. Well, yes." I feel like a foolish, errant child, but she smiles warmly.  
  
"Schuldig is proud of your work, Mr Crawford. He tells me you don't need your family's money because you are a great artist, and you'll be a successful and famous one soon enough."  
  
_Thank God he didn't tell her about the pornography,_ I think, feeling such a rush of relief that I am momentarily lightheaded. "He's an optimist," I say. _He's proud of me!_ I think.  
  
"I'm not sure you can do any wrong in his eyes," she laughs. "If you so much as white-washed a wall he'd think it a masterpiece, he's so fond of you."  
  
I want to ask her if she's sure Schuldig feels that, or simply to repeat her final words, but manage to save myself from such idiocy by taking a deep breath of the hot summer air and finding another interesting passer-by to discuss instead. By the time we have decided what fate should befall the unwitting man in our respective art, we have turned back into Cromwell Road and come to the gates of the Natural History Museum where Schuldig said he would be. As we walk towards the wide sweep of the steps up the entrance I see him stand upright from where he has been leaning against the stone, a cigarette held casually in his hand. I feel at one and the same time a niggle of embarrassment that he is smoking in public in such a common manner and the urge to pull out my book and capture the curve of his wrist and fingers and the way the smoke curls upwards. As I raise a hand in greeting, the pressure of Miss Lin's fingers on my arm increase slightly.  
  
"It's rather hot for running," she says mildly, "let's keep to our walk."  
  
I slow my pace at once, glad she has saved me from appearing a fool. Schuldig takes a long drag on his cigarette, looking irritated.  
  
"Where've you two been? I've been here an age."  
  
"We got tired of waiting for you," Miss Lin says. "So we went for a walk. You need to come to sit for me this week, don't forget."  
  
"I haven't forgotten," Schuldig says. "Crawford will have to do without me, even if he goes into a decline." He grins at me and steps around her. "You're the one who's late," he says, as I feel the brief brush of his fingers against my hand.  
  
Miss Lin reaches out and pulls him to her side, tucking her arm in his, keeping us respectably separate. "Let's go in and draw dinosaurs," she says in amusement, and we go up the steps together.  
  
The main hall makes me stop dead to drink in its grandeur as I look at the elegant stonework, the soaring ceiling and the huge staircase at the far end. Schuldig, with an exclamation like a child, simply drops Miss Lin's arm and runs straight for the massive skeletons facing us, swerving around a group of children staring, open-mouthed, upwards at their bulk. Schuldig walks around the larger of the two, his eyes never leaving the creature, although he somehow does not walk into other people.  
  
" _Look_ at it," he says, "just _look_ at this bastard. What is it?"  
  
"It's a – let's see," I say, leaning over a child to read the label. In the background I hear a girl say, "Mummy, what's a bastard?" and look up to see the woman pulling her daughter away in disgust. I sigh. "It's a Diplodocus carnegii. An American dinosaur – this is a cast, the original bones are in Pittsburgh."  
  
"Take me there. I want to see them."  
  
"All right," I say. I begin to calculate how many private paintings I must sell to afford the round trip in some comfort. If I can make sure that Schuldig doesn't see Williamson for some months, and lives well during that time, I think –  
  
"Really?"  
  
He sounds like an excited boy. I can't help but match his grin.  
  
"Really. Why not?"  
  
Miss Lin pulls her own sketchbook from her satchel and begins to draw. "That leg bone is almost as wide as you are," she says to Schuldig. "An interesting method of measurement, don't you think, Mr Crawford? Three-quarters of a life-model thick, a life-model and a half long?"  
  
"Put some flesh on it," I murmur, "the leg would be more than two of him."  
  
"It'd be like those new weapons," Schuldig said, coming up to peer over her shoulder. "It could just get over anything, like them. Did you see them used, Crawford, the tanks?"  
  
"No," I say. Then I make myself smile at them. "Let's just draw – you too, Schuldig, you need to practice."

We all do just that, sketching the parts of the skeleton that catch our fancy - I note that Miss Lin is concentrating on the incongruity of the beast's head, which seems so small, given the length of its neck - while the children and other visitors swirl around, exclaiming in joy and amazement at the dinosaurs in the hall.

"You know," she says, "I think I prefer this creature's friend - doesn't he look more primeval, Mr Crawford? Designed perhaps for some terrible battle at the beginning of civilisation."

I look at the bizarre creature sceptically, imagining how she would put a nice society lady perched behind the frill of bone, holding reins attached to the three horns.

"I think he may have been designed by committee," I say.

She laughs a little, not taking her eyes from the skeleton, then turns a page and begins a rough sketch of its head. I foresee a squadron of - I check the label - a squadron of triceratops in her art. When I turn to Schuldig I find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, shading a sketch and reluctant to let me see; when he hands his book over I can, however, see he is making progress. His attempt at the dinosaur's foot is competent enough, although the lines are hesitant and he has covered up mistakes with some fanciful plant-life. He has also drawn one of the windows, and this is, I think, showing promise. He is surprised, I see, that I spend time on this sketch, and I can see that he has perhaps tried too hard with the other - he was not trying to please anyone but himself with the image of the window, and so was not as conscious of effort.

"I like this," I say, and watch him try to look as if the praise doesn't matter to him. "You're coming along."

He grins and leans back against my legs, looking around in sheerest pleasure. "I like this," he says, his gesture taking in the hall, the bones, Miss Lin, the crowds, everything. "It's like a church, with dinosaurs. And an elephant! It's better than a church," he says, as if to himself. "No one's throwing bricks through the windows."

"What? Why would anyone break a church's windows?" I say without thinking.

He shrugs, as if it should be obvious. "We were praying in the wrong language. Oh, don't look so miserable, Crawford, it's a nice day!"

"I'm sorry that happened," I say, hoping he doesn't think me a complete fool who knows nothing of similar events in my own country, let alone his. "People shouldn't attack places of worship - I mean, it's the twentieth century!"

He shakes his head in disbelief at me. "For fuck's sake, Crawford, they were killing German breeds of dog in the street, do you think anyone stopped to ask themselves if they were acting a bit too old-fashioned when they started going after shops and churches? _Fuck_ , why did I have to say anything? Give me the sketchbook back."

I put my hand on his shoulder as he looks down and deliberately begins to draw the dinosaur's toe bone. His cheeks are flushed, as if he is embarrassed to have revealed any weakness to the world. I am not the only one with unpleasant memories, I remind myself sternly. I wonder how hot his face would be to my touch.

"We can go for lunch whenever you like. Wherever you like."

"Somewhere near," he mutters. "I'm not done with the dinosaurs yet." After another few moments he adds, in a tone much more like his usual, "You should let go of me now." He grins up at me as I step back, my own cheeks beginning to redden. "Silvia's meant to be keeping you under control; where's she gone?"

"Ah - over there, at the other end of the triceratops."

He closes his sketchbook with a snap. "I'm going to look at that elephant. Don't go to lunch without me." He springs up and heads towards the end of the hall with purpose, the huge stuffed elephant clearly as much of a draw to him as the prehistoric creatures. I stroll to Miss Lin's side, finding her making some very fine drawings of the bones in the triceratops' tail.

"We've been here well over an hour already," I say, "and we did start late, so -"

She makes a vague, inquisitive noise, looking more closely at the structure of the bones.

"We could go for lunch and come back?"

"Good," she says. "I want to look at the reptiles and amphibians. The insects too, of course." Her smile is broad. "We should do that after lunch, in case you lose your appetite."

"Thank you," I say wryly, and take her book as she holds it out. I admire the fine lines of her drawings, the neat way she has shown the bones and then I pause. Drawn in a looser, more hasty style in the corner is a small image of what is recognisably me leaning over, my hand on Schuldig's shoulder as he half turns to look up at me. It is only a quick sketch, but I am shocked at what she has caught in my expression. I close the book and hand it back.

"Do be careful, Mr Crawford," she says quietly, then, cheerfully, "Where shall we have lunch?"

Once we have successfully parted Schuldig from the elephant, we go back into the sunshine and find a small French restaurant that serves us a pleasant, if somewhat uninspired lunch. It is, however, enlightened by Schuldig's attempts to compare the size of an African elephant to a diplodocus, which involves him making hilarious inaccurate sketches from memory that look more like those of a child than anything produced by someone who has two trained artists to advise him. He falls into a sulky silence after Miss Lin rather unkindly asks if he is drawing an elephant or a cow with unusually large ears, and steals my wine in revenge. She reaches out and takes his hand, holding his fingers in hers, and forces him to draw again until he obeys her, and suddenly, under their combined grasp, his pencil yields in a few sparse lines something that gives the impression of an elephant's head. Schuldig blinks in surprise then gives her a smile of utter sweetness.

"Practice," she says, sternly.  
  
"Good advice," I say, signalling the waiter so that I can pay.

Schuldig says nothing, as he is copying the little drawing of the elephant's head carefully. Outside the restaurant he takes a deep breath and seems to come to life, his mood soaring as we walk back to the museum talking about monsters and ancient creatures. Once inside, Miss Lin leads us to an exhibition of fish swimming through glass cases, their scales gleaming with the taxidermist's varnish. She points out some crabs that resemble nothing so much as giant, armoured spiders, and finds some repulsive things floating in large jars that make Schuldig and me recoil in delighted horror.

"You don't understand beauty," Miss Lin says, examining a row of squids from which the colour has leached away. She turns to a stuffed specimen that has had its colours more artificially preserved. "Not everything has to be nice, Mr Crawford. Or classical."

"I do like the tentacles," Schuldig says, and winks at me when her back is turned.

"Look," I say to distract him from _that_ topic, "isn't that another fossil?" I don't need to say anything else, for he speeds off to the opposite side of the room, leaving me to follow at a more sedate pace. The creature is still half-encased in stone, some sort of fish-dinosaur, I suppose.

"Look at its teeth," he says in wonder. "Silvia would like this."

"She's got her slimy things for the moment," I say, and am rewarded with a sly, sidelong smile. "How should we provision an expedition where these things are a danger?" I say musingly.

"Well," he says, "are we just looking for them, or hunting them, or are they an obstacle to something else, like piranhas in South American rivers? Have you ever been in South America?"

"No. I've never even been south of the Mason-Dixon Line."

"The what? Let's go to South America. After Pittsburgh. I bet these things are still there. We'll need bait - salt pork should do it, unless you think one of us should just swim around looking tasty."

"I'm really not a very good swimmer," I admit.

"Do you think I'd manage to look tasty enough if I swam nice and slowly?" he says, teasingly.

"If we tied some of the salt pork to you, perhaps. Although these things might be vegetarians."

"With those teeth? I'm going to insist on bringing pickles. And tins of quail eggs. For us, not as bait."

"Of course," I say. "It wouldn't be an expedition without them. How much champagne do you think we'll need?" He has such a wonderful laugh, I think, feeling a foolish smile spread across my face. By the time Miss Lin comes to find us we have thoroughly planned our expedition, outfitted it with the most modern of equipment and have run through any number of possible eventualities for how to evade certain death at the teeth and claws of prehistoric beasts. The only drawing we have done is a series of small sketches in my book that show us fishing for the dinosaur, hoisting one as a trophy between us, and one of Schuldig riding a dinosaur through a wave. They cannot be described as studies of the beast's anatomy, even by a charitable observer.

"You're not working very much," Miss Lin says.

"We've planned out our dinosaur-hunting trip," Schuldig says with a laugh. "We know exactly how many bottles of wine and champagne we'll need."

"How useful," she says. "Let's look at the insects and arachnids. I'd like to brush up on spiders."

I manage not to shudder as she takes my arm and leads me away to what proves to be an informative yet repulsive investigation into the articulation of arachnid legs. I jump in alarm when Schuldig creeps behind me and tickles the back of my neck lightly, and find it difficult not to keep looking for the imaginary spider even in the face of his laughter.

"Perhaps it was a spider's ghost," he says portentously. "Or one of them isn't quite dead. Which one do you think it is? Do you think it's got down to your skin yet?"

"You're an evil-minded little -" I begin in irritation, desperate to brush my hair and and check nothing has crawled into my jacket. His words seem to make me _feel_ the skittering of legs.

"Are we to learn some American swear words at last?" Miss Lin says brightly.

"Excuse me, Miss Lin," I say in embarrassment. "Please forgive me."

"Please express yourself as you see fit," she says. "It began quite accurately."

Schuldig laughs at us both, and draws a passable spider. He adds small stick figures fleeing for their lives and one stick figure facing it down, with what I suppose is a pistol. He writes _Bang_ beside it. "There you are," he says, "that's you with a six-shooter. Because you're a Yank. Where do you keep yours, anyway?"

"I lost it in a card game with Doc Holliday, of course," I say, a little embarrassed that he has so transparently worked me back into a good humour.

"If you're going to play games with each other instead of working, maybe we should go somewhere else," Miss Lin says. "What would you like to do?" She turns a quelling look on Schuldig and he - wonder of wonders - does not say whatever dreadful thing was about to pass his lips.

"I'm sorry, we're interrupting you," I say as she shakes her head.

"No, not at all, Mr Crawford. It's very hot in here - perhaps we should try to get away from buildings for a while. Some fresh air and open spaces -"

"I don't want to walk up to Hyde Park," Schuldig whines, like a hot child.

"All right. If we walk quickly it's less than twenty minutes to Battersea Park. Which would you prefer?"

"Hyde Park," he mutters.

He is happy again the moment we are walking on grass, the sweltering heat of Exhibition Road forgotten. Once he has found a man selling ices, and I have bought one for each of us, he is peaceful and in the best of humour. For my part I find a rather childish glee in strolling with Schuldig and Miss Lin, eating my ice as I walk and imagining how horrified my parents would be by such common behaviour. (You think, I'm sure, that such pettiness should be beneath a grown man. I can only say it is as delicious as the ice and the company.) When we're finished, we find a shaded area and Miss Lin folds herself down neatly to sit on the ground. The grass is quite dry and poses no danger to my clothes, I tell myself, and do likewise. Schuldig simply flings himself down between us, drops his cap on the ground and pillows his head on my legs. I plant my hands firmly in the grass to keep myself from doing anything as ridiculous as touching his face or stroking his hair.

"May I use your pastels?" Miss Lin asks.

I push my bag over and watch her as she begins to sketch. "What are you drawing?" I ask.

She smiles and works in silence. At last she holds up a brightly coloured page that is all too similar to the images I produced this morning. Schuldig and I are surrounded with a glow, butterflies dance around us and there is, I see, an inordinately fluffy lamb in the background. Schuldig snorts with laughter and waves a hand weakly as if to keep the horrific image away. I try to look indignant at being mocked, although in truth I find the sketch rather charming.

"Do a proper picture," Schuldig commands.

"Ah, a commission," Miss Lin says. "Splendid. My price is that you are on time when you come to me."

"Yes, yes," he says, shutting his eyes.

She begins to draw again, leaving me in peace to watch the other people in the park walk to and fro, and to try and shift a little under the weight of Schuldig's head. It is really not that comfortable, I think, to have someone lie with their head in one's lap for such a long time. He makes a sleepy protest, and I obediently sit still. Miss Lin appears to be making liberal use of the green pastels, smudging them with a finger. It is becoming excruciatingly boring to sit still, I think. I mentally applaud Schuldig for his diligence in doing it so well for me. As we are forming such a casual composition, I feel I can be excused taking my hat off and fanning myself with it, although I hurriedly replace it when she looks up. The sound of insects in the hot air is hypnotic, making me feel that I have entered a waking daze that is hard to leave when at long last Miss Lin looks critically at her work and nods in satisfaction.

"It's rough, of course, but I think I could take this further."

Schuldig opens his eyes, as suddenly awake as a cat hearing a mouse, and sits up. I stretch my legs in relief, although I find myself wishing he were still lying on me. If only he were not such a dead weight when he relaxes. He has risen to his knees, careless of grass stains, and is looking at Miss Lin's sketchbook in unalloyed pleasure.

"Crawford! Look!" he says, collapsing back down beside me, the book in hand. "Don't you think Silvia has caught the moment?"

This image has no butterflies or happy glow. Schuldig is still lying in my lap, but now the limpness of his limbs and the way his arm trails - even before I look at the half-open eyes and the slackness in his features - say that he is not merely sleeping in the heat of a summer's day. His skin has an unhealthy greyish-green tone with patches of purple as if he has been (I shudder inwardly) ripening somewhat. It makes the brightness of his hair all the more startling. My expression is no longer fatuous, as she drew it before - if there is hunger on my face in this image it is all too literal. She has given us a surrounding of verdant grass, and suggestions of beautiful trees. I suppose in a finished work the eye would at first be taken by the carefully depicted and lovely parkland, seeing nothing but verdant greenery until finally noticing what else it contained.

"I like it," I say.

"He likes the idea of me not able to talk back," Schuldig says.

"It would be a novel experience," Miss Lin says, as she retrieves her book. She closes it and puts it away. "I have a prior engagement this evening. I'm afraid I must leave you."

"Can't you come to dinner?" I say.

"Thank you, Mr Crawford. Another time." She brushes her hands together and rises, swinging her bag across her shoulder. "Don't stay too long after me," she says, looking around at people crossing the grass on their way home from work. "Schuldig, remember, I expect you to turn up on time."

"Promise," he says. "Bye, Silvia."

"Good evening, Miss Lin," I say.

"Good evening, Mr Crawford," she replies, and as ever I feel she is amused by me. "Thank you for a lovely day. Be good, Schuldig."

We watch her walk away, her bag on her shoulder, and Schuldig briefly leans against me, warm and a solid weight on my side.

"It has been a good day."

"Why shouldn't we stay longer?" I say. "Even though Miss Lin has had to go -"

"Because now people won't look over and notice you and your girlfriend and your younger friend who has joined you," he says, "and it's getting on, anyway."

I frown, puzzled. "Miss Lin's not my girlfriend."

He rolls his eyes, and stands up, pulling me after him. "Come on, up. I have to go soon too. I said I'd be home early."

"Can't you have dinner with me?"

He looks as disappointed as I feel. "My dinner will be waiting for me. I can't - I have to turn in early, I promised to help out tomorrow morning. I need to be up by four."

"Four o'clock? Why, for Heaven's sake?"

"I just need to." His smile is vague and maddening.

I have learnt when not to press him, so I just nod mildly.

"If we took a taxi-cab back to my rooms - that's at least part of your way, isn't it? - would you have time for a quick drink? Or a cup of coffee?"

He looks at me, eyes narrowing a little, as if he is seeking out my secret thoughts, then he just laughs. "Yes, all right. If I make the coffee."

It is, I suppose, an extravagance to take a taxi-cab, but we are soon climbing the stairs up to my rooms, and Schuldig busies himself with coffee and milk at the cooker. He waves away the offer of anything stronger, and I think he must be attempting to keep things pleasant at home, avoiding a return with alcohol on his breath. He presents me with a large cup of his preferred sweet, milky coffee and sips at his own happily.

"How will you get on without me while I'm with Silvia?" he teases.

"I'll try not to go into mourning," I say solemnly. "I have some things I can start working up, and I've been meaning to visit more of the museums."

"Without me?"

He sounds a little bereft, so I quickly shake my head.

"Not at all. We'll keep that for when you can come. I'm glad you came today - you have improved, you know. You drew some of the bones very well."

He looks pleased. I wish I could persuade him to stay; he might, I think. He is drinking his coffee very slowly.

"Are you sure you have to go? Maybe we could do just a little work first -"

"Now? No, I have to go, I'm needed," he says, though reluctantly. He takes the last mouthful of coffee and stands up. "I liked today. Good night, Crawford."

"Wait!" I say, for he is going, and I won't see him for days. It has been such a good day, and the thought of days without him is all at once like a shadow on it. I need him to give me some token that he will return, which is ridiculous, for he of course will. He looks at me quizzically.

"Could you - that is, may I -" I look down, and take a breath before looking up again. "Before you go, may I kiss you?"

His face lights up as he steps close and takes my hands. He wraps my arms around him and puts his hands on my cheeks.

"Bravery," he says, "is rewarded. Remember that."

He slips a hand around the back of my neck to hold me, and kisses me so hard and thoroughly that all previous times seem to have been mere trials at the real thing. I stare at him in wonder and light-headedness when he lets go.

"My God," I say, all thought fleeing my mind. "Stay."

"Good," he says. "Very good." He kisses the tip of my nose, making me blink, and steps back. "I have to go. Don't forget me while I'm gone!" He pulls on his jacket, puts his cap on his head and is at the door before I can do more than try to find the words to say goodbye. "I wouldn't go dinosaur-hunting with anyone else," he says mischievously, and is gone, clattering down the stairs.

I look out the window to catch a final glimpse of him, lifting a hand in response as he waves up at me, then I look around my empty room and tidy away the coffee cups. As I wash them, I feel a rising wave of joy, and stand at the sink, laughter bubbling up. It has been a perfect day, and he will come back, and the memory of the touch and taste of his mouth is very clear. The room seems bathed in a warm glow.

I wonder if this is what love feels like.

**Author's Note:**

> At the time of this visit to the museum, the main hall was rather more crowded with exhibits than it is at present, including the famous "Dippy", the cast of the diplodocus skeleton, which was shown side by side with a triceratops, and "George," an adult male African elephant, at the far end of the hall.
> 
> During World War I, some German breeds of dogs, particularly dachshunds, did come in for attack in Britain, as lampooned in [the German cartoon of 1915 found here](http://spartacus-educational.com/FWWantigerman.htm). At the same time German Shepherd dogs were hurriedly renamed Alsatians, and seemed to have avoided much of the hatred directed at the unfortunate dachshunds.


End file.
